Oh, crap.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, but I still had to look up to meet those eyes. That wouldn't have been true for many men – I'm almost six feet tall – and the step I was balancing on added another few inches. But then, he wasn't a man.
The Fey looked me over as he set me back on my feet. Despite my best efforts, his nearness made me shiver and a broader smile broke over his face. I adjusted a strap on my dress and tried not to let my panic show. Gerald & Company requires formal dress for important sales as a way of letting potential buyers know in advance not to expect any bargains, and I'd thought I looked pretty good. My usually frizzy red mane had been tamed by almost an hour with a curling iron and my moss green gown, while not exactly couture, had once been expensive. Now I was wishing I'd blackened my front teeth or, better yet, called in sick.
"Do you know," he told me, a thread of delight running through his voice, "I'm beginning to think this evening might not be as dull as I'd imagined."
I told myself to pull back, to get some maneuvering room, but my body wasn't listening. There was no slowly building passion, no steadily mounting desire as might have been true with a handsome man. Instead, the attraction was instantaneous and so overwhelming that it left me light-headed. I simply wanted him, so much that I had to fight not to throw myself back into his arms.
Of all the things I hate about the Fey, number one is the way they make my body react. I first encountered them when I was sixteen. Father had invited a delegation to visit the family estate, and I was expected to help entertain. Instead, I dropped things all through dinner, unable to keep my mind on what I was doing with my body suddenly going haywire. Their leader had been especially unnerving, with ancient silver eyes and hair as bright as water in sunlight. I'd been fascinated by the way it cascaded over his shoulders, a platinum waterfall that carved tiny prisms from the light whenever he moved. But my admiration had faded fast when he turned to Father and, without altering the polite, bland expression he'd worn all evening, asked if perhaps I was ill, to be so clumsy. Father had laughed off the insult, but I'd been mortified.
Of course, if I'd known why they were there, I'd have shown up for dinner cross-eyed and twitching.
The Fey slid one hand around my waist, drawing me against a body that felt like sun-warmed steel. He used his free hand to produce the evening's catalogue from under the cloak and flipped it open. He perused a page, then looked down at me again. "You aren't listed."
"What?"
"It's not surprising, considering the treaty," he continued. "When are we to have the pleasure of bidding on you?"
I could feel my cheeks flush, something that, with my complexion, was probably all too obvious. I closed my eyes and with a sudden movement, wrenched away. I smoothed my rumpled gown with slightly shaking hands and glared at him. "Bite me."
I caught a gleam in those odd eyes. "Right here?"
Of all the things I hate about the Fey, number two would definitely be their sense of humor.
Suddenly, anger started to override fear. I wasn't sixteen anymore, and Gerald & Company employed plenty of guards. Not that they'd bothered to furnish me with one – ordinarily, no magical creature wanted to get close enough to give me trouble – but there were more than enough posted around the room to deal with even a Fey. And considering how well the Dark and Light Fey got along, I thought the trolls might even thank me for the excuse.
I looked around for security, but they'd been distracted by the trouble Matt was having. I hadn't seen what started it, but one of the Weres had attacked the leader of the security team and seemed to be trying to gnaw through its knobby forearm. The troll looked at him in understandable bemusement – their skin is approximately the thickness of rawhide – then snapped his arm, throwing the Were across the room. He hit the far wall with an audible thump before slowly sliding to the floor, leaving a big red mark on the gold-embossed wallpaper.
One of the trolls who usually flanked the stage had moved to assist with the fight, and the other was too preoccupied to notice me. I dodged behind the old couple he was watching through narrow, beady eyes. They'd braved my presence to check out one of the items for sale – a small, gray rune stone sitting in solitary splendor on a black velvet cushion. It was the only thing on the plinth, so I assumed it had to be important, but the description in the catalogue had been unusually vague, just a photo and a date in the tenth century.
"I still say it's a fake," the woman sniffed.
"But what if it isn't?" The man looked at it longingly. "One of the Runes of Langgarn – "
The woman gave what could only be called a snort. "Gerald is bad enough, but I don't trust that son of his at all. I'm telling you, it's not real." She caught sight of me and the usual expression of distaste passed over her features before she could mask it. She nudged her companion. "Let's go."
He ignored her. He was staring at the rune almost as if hypnotized, and before I could stop him, he put out a hand as if to actually touch it. The banshee went off like a hundred police sirens, screeching an alarm that cut through every other sound like a knife. Red lights bathed the stage, and the man quickly found himself dangling from the hand of a very large troll.
"No touching!" the troll bellowed, giving him a little shake. It sent the man's head snapping back and forth hard enough to cause whiplash, but he never took his eyes off the stone. Not, that is, until the troll threw him over his shoulder and carted him off somewhere. The woman had already fled, leaving the platform clear again, except for me and the Fey.
It quickly became obvious that I was on my own. Except for me, Matt and the trolls, the only employees on duty that night were a cadre of vampires. They were on loan from Antonio, their master, a Philadelphia mob boss who was one of the business's shady backers. They were a cynical, vicious bunch who seemed to resent having to work for Gerald even more than I did. One was watching me now, a short, ugly brute with a smirk on his lopsided features. The only other time I'd seen him smile was when he "accidentally" smashed a troll into a brick wall with a five-ton forklift. I didn't bother to ask for his help.
Before I could come up with an alternative, a surprisingly calloused hand engulfed mine. The earlier shock of the Fey's touch was back, all the more powerful against my bare skin. The feeling was nothing like the electric tingle of being near a mage. The static surge when my power meets that of a strong magic user often hurts, especially if the mage in question is deliberately trying to test me. I didn't feel a challenge here, but he was definitely doing something.
Outwardly, it probably looked like he was merely standing there, holding my hand. But I could feel his power all around me, questing, searching, trying to discover my secrets. My anger returned big-time. He wanted to know my secret? I'd be happy to show him.
It felt very weird to deliberately call up my power. Normally, I spend my time tamping it down, trying not to drain every mage I meet. Even my work at Gerald's rarely requires an actual application of strength. Normally, the slight damping field I naturally exude is enough to calm down whatever trinket their scouts have dug up. But now I focused on the Fey's bright blue aura and pulled.
Nothing happened.
I tried again. Zilch. I stared at him in disbelief. I once had a mage tell me that I had no visible aura, just a black hole that radiated outward, trying to suck his magic away. He'd been drunk and none too happy with me at the time, so I'd never known if it was true, but magical creatures certainly acted like it. And that was when I wasn't trying.